


Holmes is Where the Heart is

by saveawallflower



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Anxiety, Canon Gay Relationship, Depression, Everyone Is Gay, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Multi, Mystrade fluff, Teenlock, and cute, attempted suicide, balletlock hints, did i mention the gay relationships?, mormor fluff, yeah focus on those
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveawallflower/pseuds/saveawallflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has run away from home, but he's not the only one who's lost...<br/>After meeting at a bus stop, an unlikely relationship develops between two boys, but can it really be as fortunate as it seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Save My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Be patient.

" _Is anybody listening? Can you hear me when I call? Shooting signals in the air, 'Cuz I need somebody's help. I can't make it on my own, so I'm giving up myself. Is anybody listening? Listening?"_

John turned his music up as another chorus of raucous laughter erupted from across the bus. John knew the names of everyone in the bubbling crowd, but as he was interested in neither the relationship status of the football team, nor whether he could ignite his own flatulence, they did not have an awful lot in common.

He stared blankly out of the window at the quaint cafes and gift shops, buzzing with tourists and music and laughter. Superficial. Boring. Disgusting. It was a barren wasteland to John. His let his eyes slide out of focus and the façade blurred into a dull rainbow, slipping under his gaze as he became more engrossed in his song.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped back onto a dark shape; an ashen-faced boy sat curled up against the side of the bus stop, earning varying glances of disapproval and concern. Though his hair, features and clothes were dark, his bright eyes were full of life; enticing; with an element of hunger. John held his gaze but, as the other passengers struggled up and down the aisle, he was somehow unable to move.

As the bus began to pull away from the stop, the increased pitch of engine noise, and the thought of never seeing the boy again seemed to spark John into life. "WAIT!" John's cry provoked a torrent of giggles and several disapproving tuts, and he could feel the blood flooding to his flushed cheeks as he shuffled shamefully from his seat. But he couldn't just let this go. There had to be more to life than sitting on your own, pretending to be misunderstood and waiting to be discovered. He was so sick of it all. As he mumbled an embarrassed 'thank you' to the driver, he stumbled onto the curb.

Though John felt his exit from the bus had been pretty dramatic, he stood and shuffled his foot nonchalantly on the pavement. After years of being mercilessly teased, John knew how to keep all feelings; all passion to himself.

"I can't help you." The soft voice startled John. It was distinctly more plummy than he had expected, coming from a kid on the street.

"Uhm...what?" John mentally hit himself. No wonder he didn't have any friends. He wouldn't be able to say something original if you paid him.

"You want me to make it all worth something. Romanticise your life. You got off the bus because you thought I could help you. I can't."

John blinked, bewildered at the accuracy of the stranger's statement, and unwittingly took a step closer to him. "Who are you?"

The boy continued in a bored, condescending tone, and John could tell that he was used to being shunned. "You think somehow I'll show you how to 'live life on the edge' , so you can create some kind of paradox in which you can defy the conventions of society whilst lounging around in your nice suburban home, talking to your twee little friends about that strange little urchin whom you happened to meet on your way home. 'The Day which Changed my Life Forever.'"

The boy's piercing gaze flittered across the street as he watched a woman in a suit gesture angrily at a parking warden. John snorted, regaining his attention. Somehow, the stranger's belittling attitude made John brave.

"A) I live in a flat. B) I don't have 'friends'. Particularly not twee ones. C) Who the hell are you?"

The dark-haired boy's gaze had fallen back on John and he suddenly became aware of his boldness, blushing. God, he was so awkward. How the hell did people make small talk naturally?

"Sherlock," the boy stood up and turned to shake John's hand. John resisted the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his trousers and took Sherlock's hand, cringing. "John," he mumbled.

 Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "You're anxious," he observed. "Why?"

"It's a condition, I'm afraid. The world is wet to my touch." John paused and his smile faded. "Oh God. No. I didn't mean..." he spluttered.

"If that's a reference to popular culture, don't bother," Sherlock deadpanned. "I won't get it." "No...I just....It doesn't matter," John trailed off and threw his gaze to the floor, feeling the silence. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. John could tell that he was watching him out of the corner of his eye and squirmed slightly under the sapphire gaze, somehow unable to meet it.

"Tell me, John: what would you parents say if you brought home a stray?" the deep, abrupt voice couldn't quite disguise Sherlock's curiosity.

"They probably wouldn't notice to be honest," John's hand had found its way to the back of his neck and was playing with his baby hairs. John would've sworn that Sherlock's eyes illuminated even more, if he had thought that possible.

"In which case," Sherlock smirked, "let's go home."


	2. Through the Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock home, but it's not quite as perfect as imagined.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Don't wanna hear it."

   Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as the voice blasted out of the battered speakers on John's desk. He surveyed John carefully; standing at the foot of his bed, hands clenched, glassy eyes fixed on an Army recruitment poster on his wall.

   Mummy, Sherlock thought, would be into his room in a flash if he played his Mozart this loud. Then again, Sherlock's  parents only really argued if Daddy got too tipsy or Mummy spent too much time on her maths theorem and not enough time on the Sunday roast. But the way John rolled his eyes when he walked in the door; the way the volume dial on the speakers was already set on full, indicated to Sherlock that John constantly needed to block something out; that the shouts and thumps coming from down the hallway were a regular occurrence in John's household. 

   After a brief moment of awkward eye contact, John visibly sighed and slouched over to the CD player and switching it off and pausing for a second before he turned back to Sherlock.

    "Just ignore it. The arguing. Focus on something else....namely, me." John paused to let Sherlock nod silently, then continued in a matter-of-fact tone: "This place is...sickening. Diseased. Probably better than the street. But it's already broken my sister." He threw his eyes to the ground, unable to meet Sherlock's inquisitive gaze. John lowered his voice, "She's in hospital for substance abuse at the moment. Probably what they're arguing about," he nodded his head in the direction of the shouting. "Either that or one of them has had an affair again."

   Sherlock struggled to read facial expressions, but he felt that John's unfocused eyes and trembling lip warranted some sort of comfort. He coughed awkwardly and shifted from foot to foot, unsure of how to go about this. John let out a deep sigh and raised his eyes to Sherlock's .

    "The point I'm trying to make is that no normal person would choose to stay here. How desperate are you?"

    Sherlock towered over John. "If I'm found, you will probably face interrogation from the Police as well as your family, and probably everyone else you know. You don't seem particularly daunted at the idea of losing everything you have for a stranger on the street. So, John, I must enquire: how desperate are _you?_ "

   John seemed to lean a little closer to Sherlock, chin raised determinedly. "I think we'd better find you somewhere to sleep, stranger on the street."


	3. Sherlock Creates a Stink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes face-to-face with one of John's nightmares

John stood up from his seat, gently tugging Sherlock with him. He was still giggling childishly over a hilarious anecdote Sherlock had just related about his “condescending twat” of a brother. He hadn’t felt this cheerful on a school morning…well, ever.

“He sound like a total-” John stopped suddenly, his hand curling more tightly around the fabric of Sherlock’s jacket.

“John?” Sherlock steadied them both against the side of the bus as it came to a stop.

“Don’t look over there- DON’T LOOK! Look at me. Those boys- DON’T LOOK SHERLOCK. Just…Just try not to attract their attention. Eyes down, curly.”

Sherlock smirked at John’s new nickname for him; the boy was truly unaware of how endearing he really was. He followed John off the bus, focusing on the back of his neck, so as to avoid letting his gaze drift. He managed to quell his curiosity until-

“HEY FAGGOT”

“OI JOHNNY-BOY”

“Look at me Johno. Or have I _upset_ you, precious?”

John bowed his rapidly reddening face and hissed indistinctly at Sherlock. Sherlock glanced behind himself at the boys; slightly shorter than himself, but much stockier, with sneering expressions.

“Don’t keep walking! Show me some fucking respect, faggot.”

“ _Turn around_ you little prick. And who’s this with you? Your pretty little boyfriend?”

“He looks even gayer than you! How’d you manage that mate?”

Sherlock stared helplessly at John, who looked back with a mixture of desperation and regret.

“When I say run, well…c’mon, now!” John grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve and yanked him down a side street. He could hear the thundering of footsteps and voices behind them, but minutes later he found himself crouching behind a bin and leaning against John, both of them breathing heavily, as the footsteps ebbed away. Sherlock glanced into John’s eyes; wild with fright and adrenaline. Somehow this just felt right.

  As he regained his breath, Sherlock stood up cautiously and offered John a hand, dusting himself down with his other hand.

“Bastards,” John mumbled, taking Sherlock’s hand gratefully.

“They…they’re there all the time? They go to your school?”

John nodded slowly, chewing his lip.

“Well, John, I don’t think they’ll be bothering you for much longer.”

“What?”

*2 days later*

“What the hell was that?” John spluttered, curled up in a toilet cubicle, next to a giggling Sherlock.

“Classic sulphur dioxide reaction, John. I don’t think they’ll have girls loitering around their lockers for a while…”

“You know they’re going to kill us for this, Sherlock,” John tried to look stern, but snorted as he thought of Carl Powers retching at the smell as he opened his locker.

“Well then we’ll just have to prepare the Capsaicin…used in pepper spray,” Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully at John’s lack of scientific knowledge.

“I suppose we will,” John smirked back at Sherlock. Somehow, this just felt right.


	4. Deerstalking

Greg gently stroked Mycroft’s hair as Mycroft snuffled miserably into his neck.

“He’ll be fine, baby, you know what he’s like…”

Mycroft’s fingers curled around the edges of Greg’s jacket, as if clinging to one remaining sliver of hope.

“Look, when was the last time you saw him?”

Mycroft raised his head, looking at Greg with bloodshot eyes.

“Running out of the front door with a suitcase full of chemistry textbooks,” Mycroft sighed at Greg’s quizzical expression. “We were arguing…I told him that-” Mycroft choked on his own words and Greg wound an arm around his shoulders. “I told him that nobody actually loved him and we all just put up with him because he had ‘problems’…I’m such a dick,” Mycroft half-shouted, half-sobbed into Greg’s shoulder.

Greg let out a long sigh and held Mycroft out in front of him, “It’s not your fault. You know he wasn’t happy here anyway. And he would’ve said the same to you. We just need to find him now.”

Mycroft nodded, wiping his eyes on his cardigan sleeve, then walked over to his closet and wrenched a leather suitcase from beneath a pile of maps and papers.

Mycroft’s voice wobbled, but he smiled as he spoke, “Come, Gregory. We’re going deerstalking.”


	5. Visiting Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is in hospital

     The consistent beep of the heart-rate monitor fell slightly out of time with John’s own pulse as he caught sight of his sister lying in the hospital bed; hair fanned out like a golden-brown halo. John’s breath caught in his throat as he remembered all the times he had combed and plaited Harry’s hair before bed; brushed her teeth; picked out matching outfits for her whilst mom was sitting in some stairwell getting high with their ‘plumber’. He stroked her cheek gently, afraid to touch her in case she broke. All those princess stories he’d read her….it was ironic; she really looked like Snow White in her glass coffin. But this was no fairy tale.

   Sherlock wavered at the doorway to the ward, until John beckoned him solemnly. Sherlock stood by his side, dutifully quiet.

“I thought she was clean,” John shook his head pathetically. “Someone must’ve given her the pills. I flushed everything in the house. She always was a crafty little monkey though,” John smiled, gently twiddling a lock of Harry’s hair around his index finger. “She was okay for a while but…” he broke off, frowning. “I heard dad shouting at her for something the other night. It sounded like he was calling her a stupid…bike or something. And he didn’t want one under his roof,” John shrugged. “He was probably pissed though. He doesn’t make much sense nowadays.”

   Sherlock averted his eyes and made a non-committal noise. How could John be so relaxed, so _used_ to incapacitated parents? Sherlock had never even seen them, just heard their grunting, their manic laughing, their sobbing through the walls. Both he and John remained silent, deep in thought until a polite voice captured their attention:

“Oh hello. You must be John.”

What was that accent? Scottish?

“Uhm yeah. How’d you know?”

“Harry’s nurse keeps mentioning you. Not exactly a first-class deduction.”

Irish. Sherlock glanced down at the boy’s arms; wrapped in bandages, lying at an awkward angle; wrists-up. The boy caught Sherlock’s eye; the dark eyes penetrated him and lit up with a tiny smirk.

“Don’t worry. They haven’t seen cause to put me in a straightjacket…yet. I’m Jim, by the way.”

Following a slightly awkward pause, John decided to broach the obvious question, “You’re not from round here?”

“No,” Jim laughed, shaking his head. “’I need to get away from here’, I said. So what do they do? Send me across the Irish Sea. Not quite what I was getting at. But that’s parents for you. Ever the optimists. I don’t think I caught your name?” Jim was still staring at Sherlock, a dangerous spark of curiosity dancing on his face.

“Sherlock,” he held his hand out, giving Jim a curt half-smile. Jim shook it, wincing slightly as he lifted his arm from the duvet, but his mouth lifted at the corners.

“Sherlock. I like it. Jim’s so plain. Jim. Ugh. You can just imagine me working in IT, can’t you?”

Sherlock chuckled. John’s sudden cough startled both boys slightly, and Sherlock stepped away from Jim, feeling slightly ashamed of himself for some unknown reason.

“Well…I think we should get going, don’t you, Sherlock?” John’s tone was slightly brusque, and Sherlock nodded sheepishly.

“Bye. It was nice to meet you” Jim waved cheerily at the two. Sherlock nodded politely in response, but John walked past without comment.

“Uhm, you too,” Sherlock replied, trying to look apologetic for John’s behaviour. He ran to catch up with John in the corridor.

“Come on Sherlock. Visiting hours are over.”


	6. Farringdon Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farringdon Station really is a hub for travellers.

“MORE THAN A FEEEELINGGGG!”

Mycroft laughed as Greg yelled tunelessly along to one of his old CDs. He had a way of pulling Mycroft through hard times, usually balls-first.

“Ah!” Mycroft slapped Greg’s hands back onto the wheel as he began playing air-guitar. Greg turned and winked at Mycroft.

“You’re in safe hands, Mikey, don’t you worry. Passed my test fifth time.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Oh for God’s sake, it’s _Mycroft. My-croft._ Repeat after me: _My-_ umph” Mycroft stopped short as Greg crashed their lips together at a set of traffic lights.

“That shut you up, you insufferable arse,” Greg smirked, his warm breath making Mycroft’s lips tingle. As Greg turned back to the wheel, Mycroft cast his eyes to the people on the street, the blush fading from his cheeks.

He could be anywhere.

Staying with strangers he met on the street. Crouching behind bins; running terrified from thugs. Hell, what if he wound up in hospital?

Greg gently slid his hand into Mycroft’s, as if reading his mind. God, Mycroft didn’t deserve him. He was a shit boyfriend and a shit brother. If it didn’t pose such an ironic problem, he probably would’ve run away by now. Nobody should have to put up with him.

He cleared his throat gruffly, “So the last call he made was from the Greater London area. Where would my psychopath of a baby brother go in London?”

“The Tower?” Greg suggested.

Mycroft shook his head, sighing, “Too obvious. He’s probably curled up against a wall in a Tube station somewhere.”

Greg stroked Mycroft’s hand comfortingly, “No, baby. He’ll have wheedled his way into some university or something. He’ll probably be a professor by the end of the week.”

Mycroft smiled weakly.

***Meanwhile in Farringdon Road Station***

“Shit!” John cursed loudly as the train pulled away from the platform, leaving himself and Sherlock behind. He slumped against wall, wrapping his jacket more tightly around himself and Sherlock followed suit.

“I don’t even know why I’m so desperate to get back,” John sighed.

“John…look… if you could just, maybe…tell someone about- you know and…well, make a stand.”

“Oh yeah? Because you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you Sherlock? Making a stand?"

Sherlock fidgeted with the buttons on his coat. "I just mean...stand up to your parents or-"

John was in full flow.

"Except…I didn’t see you making a stand when Carl Powers was kicking my head in. Or when Gaz decided to use my geography project as a jumbo spliff. Or even when Lee decided to use my hair as a toilet brush? You prefer to leave the action to other people, do you?”

“John…. I just thought maybe you’d be better dealing with it on your own.”

“Well, it’s a good job we don’t all have that attitude, isn’t it Sherlock? Otherwise where would you be now?”

Something stirred in Sherlock's stomach. He didn't normally get this angry, but John had always proved an exception to him.

“Probably in exactly the same place, except…. Except I wouldn’t be taking your- your shit.”

It was about as vindictive as Sherlock could manage. But it seemed to have the desired effect.

“Yeah? I’d really like to see how that’d work out for you,” John fumed.

“Maybe you will,” Sherlock said quietly, standing up.

“Oh yeah. Run away. Because that’s such a fucking great plan. See you around, Sherlock,” John spat, but Sherlock was already making his way towards the steps which lead out into the bright sunshine above.

    Mycroft led Greg through the bustling Tube station urgently, his hand curled around the nook of Greg's elbow. They had already searched 4 different stations and 3 landmarks for his baby brother, but Mycroft was on a mission. Suddenly his grip tightened.

“What is it love?” Greg asked, looking worriedly at Mycroft.

“I thought I just saw him. On those stairs,” Mycroft pointed, looking at Greg for conformation. But Greg shook his head gently.

“You’re gonna think you see him everywhere because that’s what you _want_ to see, Mikey.”

This time Mycroft didn’t bother correcting him, and merely sighed in acknowledgement.

His eyes scanned the platform, but to no avail. Just adults in business attire and a small sandy-haired boy huddled under his coat.


	7. Lumberjacks in Eyeliner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg always gets his way. Especially if it involves make-up.

“Mycroft get your arse out of the bathroom, I want to show you something!” Greg tried to hide the excitement in his voice as he called his boyfriend from the hotel bed they were sharing. Of course, he was concerned for Sherlock, but he had to enjoy the novelty of being able hold Mycroft at night; touch him without all the secrecy. He smiled to himself as he cast his eyes around the room: everything his side of the bed was crumpled in piles; his ‘lumberjack’ shirts, as Mycroft called them, draped over the armchair and shoved under the dressing table. The room on Mycroft’s side of the bed was like another world: his jumpers neatly folded; coat hung in the wardrobe; his umbrella propped against the wall like a soldier awaited commands.

The click of the bathroom lock released butterflies into Greg’s stomach. He still blushed every time Mycroft smiled at him; felt faint every time they kissed. But his smile disappeared when he saw Mycroft. His red eyes were shadowed by dark bags, sparkling tear trails still etched on his pale face. And Greg could smell smoke.

“You promised. You said you’d give up.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as if Greg was missing something obvious, “We are slightly outside the usual circumstances, Gregory. One cigarette to calm my nerves won’t kill me.”

Mycroft’s condescending tone felt like a stab to Greg’s stomach. After a few seconds of heavy silence, Mycroft sighed dejectedly and sat down on the bed beside Greg, snaking his arm around his shoulders and resting his head on Greg’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Greg nuzzled his cheek against Mycroft’s soft hair and gently kissed his forehead before sneaking a pamphlet into his lap.

“Green Day?” Mycroft questioned.

“It’s only one night. And we won’t get a chance like this again. Pleeeease?” Greg whimpered, dropping to his knees in front of Mycroft and batting his eyelashes idiotically.

Mycroft’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he let out a choked laugh, cupping Greg’s face in his hands.

“Alright then. Fuck it. You’ll have to lend me some eyeliner though.”

Greg feigned offence, “Eyeliner? What do you think I am? Gay?”


	8. Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who hospitalised Harry?

"What the hell did I do wrong? Tell me."

_I'd be happy to give you a long list of things if you let me speak._

"Toys. Make-up. Books. Music. Whatever you wanted, you got it."

_Except maybe, y'know, love and affection._

"You think slicing yourself up like a piece of meat is gonna get you attention? Fucking right it is. You've got my attention. No child of mine is going to go around making a show like that. You know how that makes me look? Being called in by your teacher? It makes me look like a bad parent. Am I a bad parent?"

_Yes._

"No, dad."

"Damn right. I tried hard with you, girl, and this is how you repay me?"

The glistening red face was just millimetres from Harry's own, its veins pulsating threateningly, as if mocking her scarred wrists.

She caught her breath. What did she have to lose?

"Dad, I'm really...unhappy. I like someone, and - and I know you won't understand-"

"Unhappy?" he laughed cruelly. "That's _life,_ sweetheart. You think you're the only one? Bit of a special case? Well, girl, I think you need to be taught a lesson. I didn't bring up my kids to wallow in their own crap."

"YOU DIDN'T BRING US UP AT ALL!" Harry exploded, before clapping a hand to her mouth. But the words were already hanging in the air like a noose waiting to snake around her neck.

The sound of the slap echoed through Harry's dream the same way it had reverberated off the walls then. The darkness as her head hit the edge of the cabinet was suffocating.

John. John should be there squeezing her shoulders, pleading with her not to cry out.

Nothing.

Wracking sobs tore through her and jolted her awake. The smell of toast and disinfectant which crept up her nostrils reminded her where she was. Her damp eyes rambled over the various blue furnishings of the ward, until they stumbled on a large brown pair of eyes which stared unblinkingly back at her.

"Your brother called," the voice which accompanied them was just as she expected: velvety soft and intriguing, with an edge of danger.

"Oh?" Harry wriggled and arched her back, propping herself up in bed.

"He seems like he really cares about you," his voice was tinged with sadness, and suddenly Harry's lip began to wobble, as her eyes pricked threateningly. It was stupid; she knew that she was lucky to be here really. Loads of other kids didn't pull through this kind of thing. Loads of other kids didn't have a brother like John. Looking at the dark-eyed boy, she knew he was one of them.

Nevertheless, she couldn't stop the fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she thought of John's face that night.

All the pills. They promised to put her to sleep. To kill the pain.

Benzodiazepines. Xanax. Promising to rid her of anxiety. And they almost did, for good.

She'd watched the panic rise in John's face as he broke through the door; cradled her; tried to make her vomit.

His ocean-blue irises were blown to tempestuous grey; the silent scream of a ship in a storm.

He was by her side in the ambulance. Always with her, holding her hand.

She stared down at her hand, lying empty and lifeless at the side of her bed; hosting an tube connected to a Ketamine IV. Happiness in a bag.

Suddenly, a warm soft hand gently clasped her fingers. She started as she hadn't seen or heard the boy move, but didn't pull her hand away.

"Harry, I'm Jim," his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. "Welcome to the Island of Misfit Toys."

 


	9. Call of the Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess you'll just have to read the chapter, won't you?

Sherlock shivered and tugged at the edge of his coat, trying to stop the draught from creeping under it. But the pain; like a shard of ice stabbing him in the chest; that couldn't come from the London breeze whipping across the Thames. The cold air was assaulting his airways and he struggled to breathe. It felt like someone was grabbing at his lungs, trying to squeeze the life out of him. The lights around him began to spin and words started going off in his brain like mines:

_John. Mycroft. John. Mummy. John. Daddy. John._

_John._

_J_ _ohn._

_John._

Sherlock cradled his head in his hands. He had tried a couple of deductions to put his mind at ease, but it was too clouded with thoughts of their argument.

_No. Try again._

He gritted his teeth and raised his head. He was in central London for God's sakes. If he couldn't find distractions here, he wouldn't find them anywhere else. Any moment now people would come flooding out of North Greenwich Station for this concert thingy being advertised on billboards by the O2. And the lead singer was wearing eyeliner, so Sherlock presumed that the attendees would make an interesting clientele.

Sure enough, a leather-clad mass soon began to pour from the station; chattering excitedly a tunelessly yelling song lyrics into the bitter night air.

Sherlock's eyes fixed on a handsome young man in a lumberjack shirt; wearing rather a lot of eyeliner.

_Bitten nails...frown lines...under a lot of stress..this is his night off_

_clothes aren't worn in the usual places...looked after...favourite outfit...scruffy boots...no other choice of footwear...away from home...had to pack light..._

_e_ _yeliner is perfectly applied...favourite outfit isn't particularly outrageous, suggesting that the rest of his clothes are also ordinary..._

_s_ _o he doesn't usually adopt the 'glam rock' look...meaning eyeliner has been practiced in secret...he has practiced for tonight...dressing to impress...but a band won't notice him in an arena full of thousands of people...so he's trying to impress whoever he's with..._

The boy reached down and took his companion's hand, gently turning him so that he could press a delicate kiss to his cold lips. Sherlock waited for them to break apart so that he could scrutinise the second boy.

_Also wearing eyeliner....not as perfect...not in the habit of wearing it or applied by someone else (probably subject A)...eyes are red and-_

Sherlock's brain stopped mid-flow. He sat still for a second, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

But as someone once told Sherlock, "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

And that someone was currently making his way to a Green Day concert, wearing eyeliner.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock's voice was hoarse from the cold hours spent alone, but he forced his vocal chords into action, flames of desperation burning up inside his chest.

"MYCROFT!" the pitch of his screams increased as he was consumed by the crowd.

He fought his way through the crowd, but he was losing his sense of direction; his big brother; his moral compass. Clinging to the only hope he had left, Sherlock bellowed his brother's name one last time.

Nothing. He sank to his knees, ignoring the jostling he was getting from the crowd; all his energy had left him with his brother.

Suddenly, a hand closed around the back of his collar, yanking him upwards.

He turned around, just as Mycroft enveloped him in his arms, sobbing into his dark curls. Sherlock breathed in Mycroft's scent: cigarettes and mucky aftershave. Home.

Greg waited patiently for the two to separate, grinning goofily. They broke apart slowly, Mycroft still holding Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, Scotty. I never meant... it was a bad time," Mycroft wiped the tears from Sherlock's face with his thumb, as Sherlock reached up to cup Mycroft's face lovingly in his hands.

After a few minutes of taking in every detail of Mycroft's face, Sherlock's eyes wandered to Greg, who blushed, knowing the spotlight was on him now.

Mycroft rolled his eyes calmly.

"Yes, Sherlock, Gregory and I are...'going out'," he sighed resignedly.

Greg smiled and held out his hand politely.

_He tried so hard for Mycroft. He looked after him. He brought him to me._

Sherlock rushed forward, tackling Greg with an uncharacteristic hug. Greg shot a tickled glance at Mycroft, who smiled gently back.

He started off quietly before Greg joined in loudly:

"My heart is beating from me....I am standing ALL ALONE...PLEASE CALL ME ONLY IF YOU ARE GOING HOME"

Sherlock stared, bewildered at the two.

"It's your homecoming, brother mine," Mycroft ruffled his hair. "Welcome back."


	10. There is a Light That Never Goes Out

John walked out onto the fire escape staircase, crouching next to his sister and wrapping his arm around her shoulder. It had been a week since she left hospital and she could already feel herself getting worse. She had no intention of being the other side of the rail, but she needed the adrenaline rush of being up high; to feel in charge of her own life. She stared down at the tiny people and cars below. She was watching everything from above; an outsider; an alien; an angel. A perfect metaphor.

   My Chemical Romance danced from her headphones to her head. John twiddled with a strand of her hair, making a tiny golden plait. They both started when a grinning ginger-brown-haired boy called out to them from the stairwell above, hanging dangerously over the rail.

"Good place for a fag, huh?"

John nodded politely; trying to recall the boy's face.

"Good, 'cause I'm  about as gay as they come," he laughed, half-stepping, half-sliding down the ladder, showing off his toned arms. "Now," he shimmied down the rail, squatting next to Harry. "I know my parfum is strong but things don't smell 100% straight around here." He raised his eyebrows, looking at John and Harry in turn. After a minute of strained silence, all three burst out laughing, John and Harry exchanging incredulous looks, before introducing themselves.

"Seb," he offered a pack of cigarettes around, which John and Harry declined, and then lit up.

"So," he began between drags, seemingly unconcerned that he was carrying the whole conversation. "What do you even do around here?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but Harry stepped forward, linking her hand around his bicep and pulling him towards the door. Both boys stared at her, bewildered. She turned to them, her eyes sparkling with excitement; for the first time in months, she looked alive. "Seb, there's someone I want you to meet."

   Seb stood quietly at the side of the bed, watching Harry wake the dark-haired boy. "Jimmy," Jim stirred, blushing slightly when he caught sight of Sebastian.

"Oh. I didn't realise I had company." Seb's stomach tied itself in knots as the gruff-voiced boy rubbed the sleep from his eyes like a little kitten.

_Wait, what?_

6ft, kick-the-shit-out-of-you, macho guys were Seb's jam. _Not_ cute, weedy, damaged boys.

"This is Seb. He likes The Smiths too," Harry wiggled her eyebrows at Seb. "If you're wondering how I know: I hear everything through the floor."

Seb felt his cheeks heat up. He usually tried to conceal his real music taste.

"Better not bring any boys home then," he smirked awkwardly. Jim giggled and Seb's stomach did a backflip. He was desperate to talk to Jim, but he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Thankfully, Jim took the plunge first: "So, Seb...Panic or There is a Light That Never Goes Out?"

Seb grinned goofily, "My two favourites...no, I can't choose."

Jim laughed, rolling his eyes, "This is a crucial decision, Sebastian. _Choose._ "

"Make me."

"Oh, I will. Have you never seen a man in a plaster cast fight?"

"Funnily enough, no...I wonder why that is."

Harry smiled to herself. Music.  Jim's only weakness. The key to his heart. Shattered into a million tiny pieces. But with every smile, every touch from Seb, it was slowly mending. Jim Moriarty was getting better.

 


	11. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock puts Mycroft's intellect to the test.

“ _Warden threw a party at the county jail.”_ Mycroft giggled as Greg jived crazily to the music reverberating off the walls.  Suddenly, Greg grabbed him by the waist and spun him dramatically, making Mycroft screech.

“Gregory! Stop it! _Stop it!”_ he wriggled helplessly; trying to contain the laughter bubbling up inside him.

“Myc,” Greg began in a mock-serious tone. “If I’m taking you to the undergrads ball, we’re going all-out bells-and-whistles, shower-me-in-glitter and spank me twice. Understand?”

Mycroft nodded solemnly, a smirk creeping across his lips as Greg grabbed both of his arms and started jerking them about, forcing him to do The Twist.

“ _If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair!”_ Greg yelled, kicking out enthusiastically at one of the Holmes’ dining room chairs. A little too enthusiastically. He cursed as a spurt of blood spattered the carpet, and sank to the floor, clutching his toe like a small child. Mycroft refrained from saying anything ‘smart’ (as mummy phrased it); merely stroking Greg’s hair and going to fetch painkillers and a plaster.

Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed as he searched the cupboard for a third time. He didn’t use painkillers much; he hated swallowing tablets, but he was sure that a small row of boxes and bottles ordinarily decorated the top of the cabinet. Come to think of it, where were grandpa’s anti-depressants? He knew neither mummy nor daddy had had the heart to throw them out. And Sherlock…Sherlock wouldn’t even talk about granddad. He wouldn’t talk about anything nowadays.

Mycroft crossed the hallway. “Sherlock?” he knocked cautiously on the younger boy’s door. “Scottie?”

Of course. He wasn’t back from his violin lesson. Mycroft opened the Mycroft opened the door tentatively, and blinked, taken aback. Sherlock’s room was…tidy. The razor daddy had bought him for his birthday lay exactly parallel to a pad of paper and his favourite pen. His bed was made. His books were stacked neatly. It smelled slightly musty, like the door had been shut for days. Mycroft shut the door behind him, feeling like he was intruding on a sacred tomb. The sombre atmosphere settled on the furniture like a layer of dust; undisturbed by days of inactivity.

The feeling of guilt in Mycroft’s stomach spread to his chest, interwoven with dread. Just one look. Just to check. He pulled the draw of the bedside table open. Books. Peeked under Sherlock’s bed. Paper. Everywhere he looked, folders and reference books dominated his view.

_Think, Mycroft, think. For him. Forget Greg. Just for now. It’s you and Sherlock. Just a game of hide and seek._

_Hide and seek._

_His favourite spot_

Mycroft fell to his knees in front of the wardrobe, prising it open and shoving numerous pairs of black trousers out of the way. And there they were. At least twenty containers of pills. Mycroft snatched them out and marched to the bathroom, seething, and pouring them away; flushing them down the toilet and placing the empty containers back in the cabinet.

Back in Sherlock’s bedroom, Mycroft pulled the pen and paper off Sherlock’s desk, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes to save his baby brother’s life. He began To scribble frantically.


	12. Shot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Struggling to save Sherlock.

_Life is a shot in the dark, Scottie._

_You can’t turn on the lights. You can’t see which way is up._

_You can see the way out. You can turn the gun on yourself and the fear is blown out of your brain._

_But, brother mine, reach out into the darkness. For I will too. And we will find warmth in this godforsaken cage of existence._

_And if you can’t reach me; if you’re grasping at nothingness, shout. Shout until the air has drained from your lungs. Shout until your voice becomes a scream and scream into the void._

_Because Sherlock, I would take a bullet for you. I will get shot down over and over and I won’t stop until I reach you. Because Sherlock, I won’t leave you here in the dark. And you won’t leave me either._

_Remember when we used to get told off for whispering after Mummy turned out the lights?_

_Remember when we used to play hide and seek in the dark because it made it marginally more stimulating?_

_Remember when you made me close my eyes during your ballet recital because you were too embarrassed to show me your dance?_

_Life is a shot in the dark, Scottie. But you don’t have to go it alone._

_You are my light. Now let me be yours._

   Mycroft wiped his eyes on his cardigan sleeve before folding the letter up and placing it in the back of the wardrobe.

Greg was waiting patiently when Mycroft strode into the dining room.

“We’ve…uh…run out of painkillers,” Mycroft mumbled gruffly. After a second of trying to read Mycroft’s expression, Greg pulled him into a tight cuddle; Mycroft stooping slightly to nuzzle into his neck.

   A couple of hours later, Mycroft was lying in bed, staring at the old glow-in-the-dark stars that Sherlock had put on his ceiling. His pillow was no replacement for Greg’s chest and there was no-one to stroke his hair until he fell asleep. He hated becoming dependent on people. Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. But Greg  seemed different and just…Greg.

    Mycroft was tugged sharply from his thoughts when his bedroom door creaked open and a sliver of light crept across his ceiling. The sound of feet padding across the carpet accompanied by a delicate snuffling sound. Seconds later, a skinny body was curled up beside him; bony arms wrapping around him; a mop of curls tickling his nose; tears seeping into his pyjama top.

   Mycroft clutched his baby brother; tears running down his long nose and into Sherlock’s hair as he breathed in his brother’s soothing smell. A comfortable silence settled over the two boys and Mycroft slowly fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of Sherlock’s deep breathing.


	13. If Music Be the Food of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cute little MorMor.

   Seb squirmed, chortling as Jim’s warm tongue delicately glided across his thumb, licking off the cinnamon icing that he had scooped up. Jim’s eyes flitted up to meet Seb’s for one intense moment, before the blood rushed to his cheeks and he diverted his gaze to the street; visually tracking the movements of bustling shoppers, carrying ridiculously large clumps of overflowing bags.

“Jimmy…you know my birthday’s coming up?” Seb wheedled, stroking his hand across Jim’s before intertwining them. Jim nodded, encouraging Seb to proceed. “There’s something I _really_ want.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly at Seb.

“And what would that be, Sebastian?”

Seb took a deep breath. Shit. This was it.

“You,” he breathed, edging his face closer to Jim’s until his eyelashes were tickling Jim’s cheeks.

“I suppose I would look rather fetching with a bow on my head,” Jim giggled before leaning in and brushing his lips against Seb’s.

Forget fireworks. This was like a fucking minefield. The explosions went off all over Seb’s body. There was no way of keeping them under control. And he didn’t want to. His hand moved to cup the back of Jim’s head, and Jim leaned in, snaking his arms around Seb’s waist. Both boys breathed in the pure ecstasy of the moment, chests heaving in unison, relishing the sugary cinnamon taste coating both of their tongues.

  After a few minutes, they pulled apart, breathless. Jim jumped up restlessly, dragging Seb by the arm and practically throwing the bill money at the table. They scrabbled through the town centre, Seb almost tripping over Jim as he stopped suddenly in front of a huge record store, illuminated with numerous sets of fairy lights and neon-tube lettering. Jim’s eyes sparkled with the reflection, but they also seemed to hold some kind of promise of magic, of salvageable dreams.

“The first place I visited when I came to England,” he explained shyly. “It’s the only place I feel human and I….well I haven’t brought anyone else here yet.”

Seb smiled weakly, his stomach fluttering, and planted a soft kiss on Jim’s lips before letting him lead him inside.

“My favourite section.” Jim gestured a willowy arm at the ‘punk rock and hard-core’ aisle. Seb smiled to himself. Jim was so reserved; so tender; so damaged. His music was dejected; rebellious. And as Jim jived unfittingly to some screamo demonstration track, Seb knew there were so much more to Mr Moriarty than met the eye. God, he was in love.


	14. Crack my Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seb's a babe. Jim's a babe. Carl's a dickhead. Sherlock's a bit of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some parts of the text are lifted straight from S2E3; I do not claim to own any of that.

John closed his eyes and braced himself for the next thundering outburst; hammering on the door; shouts creeping through the cracks. Carl Powers and his various cronies had made it their mission to use John as their personal punch bag. Apparently, he hadn’t yet forgotten the locker incident and, without Sherlock there to protect him, John had become vulnerable prey.

   He massaged his furrow brow. He wasn’t even close to crying. The feeling of emptiness was all-consuming. There was no pain; no longing, not any more. John imagined his heart in a safe; the double beat echoing around the cold walls. His body was a shell; at its centre the machine which kept him alive.

   He twisted the lock on the cubicle door, clearing his mind as he walked into battle. Hands immediately grabbed at his clothing and threw him to the floor. He massaged his ribs, gritting his teeth as Carl Powers sneered over him. 

“So I guess your little boyfriend left you to live in the gutter? Don’t blame him to be honest. Probably jumped in front of a bus by now. Still better than living with-“

The next thing John knew, he was massaging his bruised knuckles, having cut Carl off with a swift punch to the nose. The sea of hands immediately seized him again and shoved him down, more forcefully this time. His head cracked on the cold tiles of the floor, and his peripheral vision began to waver.

   “What the fuck is going on here?” Seb stormed in, knocking several boys out of the way in the process. His eyes flitted from John to Carl, who tightened his jaw.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Sebastian,” he said curtly.

“You got a problem with John, _mate,_ you got a problem with me,” Seb spoke softly and dangerously, squaring up to the ringleader. Carl began his retort, but Seb already had him of the floor in a throttle hold.

“Seb…” The boy turned to the sound of John’s voice, and loosened his grip slightly, looking down at the limp body below him. Carl gasped at the release, and Seb cast his gaze around the group, challenging them to fight him. When no-one did, he offered a muscular arm to John, heaving him up, and supporting his weight as the younger boy’s world spun at the sudden movement.

   Outside the toilets, Seb wrapped a protective arm around John, steering him to the nearest bench.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. Jim and I take shit from them all the time,” Seb had truly mastered the ‘gentle giant’ demeanour. John struggled to swallow. He wanted to thank Seb, or joke about it. But all he could think about was sitting with Sherlock the last time Carl attacked. Same cubicle. Different frame of mind. He couldn’t stop the tears spilling down his cheeks. The pain of losing him had returned. Seb said nothing, but cradled him tenderly.

*Later that evening*

John’s thumb hovered uncertainly over the ‘send’ button. He’d already messed everything up once….fuck it, what did he have to lose?

_I screwed up. I’m sorry._

He stared at his own words on the screen, waiting for Sherlock’s to join them. He knew Sherlock was a lazy texter, but he was still hopeful. Perhaps this would be an exception.

_18:08: **Orange** : Your bill amount is…_

_20:02: **Harry:** Out with C. See ya later, alligator. _

_20:57 **Seb:** Jim’s over. Come visit us, loner._

After throwing his phone across the room in frustration for the third time, John grabbed his shoes and headed upstairs, trying to ignore the growing disappointment in his chest.

“Ayy it’s ma homeboy!” Seb’s fake American twang gave away his drunken stupor. Jim giggled tipsily behind him, handing John a beer. “We were just about to play spin the…uh…can,” Seb hiccupped. “But seeing as there’s only three outcomes, we may as well speed things up a little,” he winked, kissing Jim sloppily and then smashing his lips lazily against John’s, who chuckled, returning to his beer.

   Two hours later, all three boys were out on the balcony, giving noisy renditions of Queen songs and throwing cans at pigeons on the rooftop opposite. Seb cheered raucously as he missed one by millimetres.

“One day,” Jim slurred, stroking his hand across Seb’s chest. “I’m going to hire you as my…my stripper. No, no my…swiper. My….”

“Sniper?” John giggled and Jim nodded, burying his face in Seb’s neck as his shoulders shook with laughter.

 John’s phone vibrated. He managed to answer it on the fourth ring, after fumbling around for some time.

“John.”

Sherlock. John suddenly wished he wasn’t quite so drunk. Jim and Seb watched him; worried by his sudden sombreness.

“What’s going on?” John half-whispered.

“An apology. It’s all true.”

“What?”

“Everything you said. About me.”

“Why are you saying this?” John tried to hide the hurt of being abandoned in his voice, somewhat unsuccessfully.

“I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock…”

“Tell Harry. Tell Jim and Seb. Anyone who’ll listen. I’m a fraud. And I’m sorry.”

A moment’s silence ensued while animated thoughts gathered in John’s alcohol-fuelled brain.

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met… _the first time we met…_ I found out _exactly_ who you were: arrogant, rude, brilliant. And I could’ve walked away.”

“You should’ve done.”

“Given, you’re a dick. But thank God I didn’t. You became my hero.”

“Heroes don’t exist John. And if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock. There were times when I didn’t think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, the most human…human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you’re a fake.”

The tears were rolling down John’s cheeks again.

Silence on Sherlock’s end of the line. Then a quiet sniffle.

“I was so alone and I owe you so much,” Sherlock’s voice broke and the air was sucked from John’s lungs. He cradled his head in his arms, his torso shaking uncontrollably as he slumped against the wall. Jim gently eased the phone from his hand, hanging up and offering him a cigarette. Seb rubbed his shoulder comfortingly.

The three boys seemed to gaze out at the cold light of the stars for eternity, not saying a word. But John’s thoughts were loud enough. Sherlock Holmes had opened the safe once more.


	15. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The living walk among the dead.

The image of the outcast adolescent is a generic caricature of teen-orientated media; a figure of ridicule for some; an idol for others. But surely a stereo type with predefined boundaries and characteristics is unable to provide rebellious relief from the very society which created it-

“Harry!”

Harry shook her head slightly, having been dragged from her daydream.

“Don’t tell me you were planning that bloody societal project again,” Clara raised an eyebrow cynically. Harry smiled up at the ebony-haired friend, who shook her head exasperatedly.

“Give me a leg-up then.” Harry boosted Clara up to the opening; bordered by fragments of glass. Clara cursed as she attempted to avoid them and laddered her tights. Suddenly she shifted her weight, and tumbled into the building. Seconds later, she resurfaced and threw down a dusty crate for Harry to stand on.

Staring down the patchy corridor, with paper peeling off the walls and the patient record stands dangling from doorways, a bubble of anticipation rose in Harry’s chest, making the air splinter in her mouth. She scuffed the tip of her shoe is the carpet of litter and dust. A thin line of light shone back at her. A needle; used by the look of it. A collar of fear encircled her windpipe.

“Clara?” she whispered. But her counterpart had already made her way through the wreckage and rubbish, and was peering into a cavernous reception area.

Harry crept up behind her, shivers travelling up and down her spine as she swept the hospital with her eyes. Clara spun around to face her, illuminating her face with her torch.

“Well they encourage your complete co-operation, send you roses when they think you need a smile,” Clara began tiptoeing theatrically towards Harry in a perfect recreation of Gerard’s voice. Harry tried to look exasperated, but couldn’t help being drawn in by the performance and a wide grin crept across her face. Clara ended the final verse just centimetres from Harry’s face. The two girls’ eyes met for a few precious moments, exchanging a thousand words.

A deep thud from above their heads broke their silent avowal. Clara reached for Harry’s hand, her bitten nails digging into Harry’s fingers, and dragged her urgently towards a dusty staircase at the end of another dilapidated corridor. Harry pulled back on Clara’s arm, shaking her head. Clara rolled her eyes and shook her hand free of Harry’s grasp, making her way up the staircase. The blonde-haired girl paused for a minute before letting out a shaky sigh and running after her, two steps at a time. When she finally reached the top, Clara was standing by a long window at the end of the hall, looking out over the derelict gardens.

“You know there’s probably some crackhead-” Harry stopped short as a second body stepped into the backlight sector.

“Your friend’s a lot smart than you now, isn’t she?” The boy’s sneering voice sounded distant and jolty.

“Who are you?” Clara spoke self-assuredly, but Harry recognised the fear in her wavering voice.

“I’m a crackhead with a knife. Now piss off.”

“Clara, do as he says.”

A slurred shout echoed into the corridor: “Wiggins, what you doing?”

“Back in a minute, Gaz.”

“Wiggins? That’s your name? We can get you out of here. Just let me-” Clara gasped as the blade swept across her outstretched hand, gritted her teeth its owner.

“Little shit,” Clara grasped her bleeding hand as Harry gently tugged her away. Both girls were silent making their way into the lobby.

Clara’s soft voice curled into Harry’s neck, startling her as they made their way back to their entry point.

“ _So._ There’s this convent that was subject to arson attacks a few streets away. We could go on Thursday; it won’t be as boring as this, there won’t be-”

“ _This_ is what you call boring?” Harry asked incredulously.

Clara grinned and cupped Harry’s face with her slashed hand.

“OFF!” Harry squeaked, wiping her cheek. “God, I’d like to see what you call interesting.”

The spark in Clara’s eyes flared up.

“Just look in a mirror.”


End file.
